


Let It Snow

by cadkitten



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Superman (Comics), Superman - All Media Types
Genre: Christmas, Kissing, Learning To Deal, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-17
Updated: 2016-12-17
Packaged: 2018-09-09 03:31:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8874097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cadkitten/pseuds/cadkitten
Summary: The barest shift of material behind him and their proximity became something nearly intimate in nature. He heard the slight hitch in Clark's breathing, understood what was going to happen before it ever could. It had been a long time coming; something they'd put off, denied, pushed away time and again. No matter how many years stretched out between them, no matter the range of distance between them or the infrequency of visits, it was something that had never paled.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Merry Christmas, everyone. Here's a little BruClark to warm your hearts tonight.  
> Beta Readers: kate1zena  
> Song[s]: "木洩れ日が僕を探してる…" by Merry

Outside, the barest hints of snow began to cover the manor grounds, the first snow of the year to actually _stick_. Each little flake drifted idly down from the sky, landing so gently on the browned tufts of grass, perching perfectly on each little spear. For Bruce, this time of year held many meanings. It held a host of criminals and crimes tilted toward the Christmas season: people dressed in Santa suits holding up the convenience stores, and a variety of criminal that ranged closer to _villain_ if he were being honest. People panhandled and begged in the worst parts of town, putting themselves in jeopardy. It held memories of his parents, of warm nights by the crackling fireplace, the mingling scents of cocoa and eggnog, of fresh cinnamon and the tones of Alfred's cooking. It held memories of the first few years after they were gone: of longing for his parents to come back, barely reserved anger and anguish that hadn't let him enjoy this holiday in a very long time.

Even with each of his _Robins_ , he had still found himself reserved, _held back_ in ways he regretted, but couldn't seem to find the strength to change. With Dick, he had _tried_ , he really had. He'd bought a tree and they'd attempted to decorate it themselves that first year. He'd bought him presents without having Alfred do it for him, had tried to create an atmosphere like the one he remembered from his childhood. The days after had held a misery he hadn't been prepared for, a bombardment of memories he hadn't wanted, of emotions he couldn't deal with while taking to Gotham's nights. 

After that, he hadn't tried _like that_ ever again. They'd held dinners and formal galas, things the face of Bruce Wayne was expected to create and Alfred had attended to the gifts. It had been like that with Jason and with Tim. Even when he'd found Tim one Christmas, curled up in front of the fireplace, the remnants of tears drying on his face, he hadn't been able to offer more than a solemn hug before he'd felt like he was crumbling somewhere deep inside of himself, before he had to pull away and leave Tim to his own devices.

Damian... Damian was a whole other breed when it came to Christmas. The first few years, he had watched his own son turn his nose up at the idea of such an expression of _joy_. He'd watched as Damian had excused himself earlier than anyone else time and again, watched as he locked himself up in his own room and snapped at everyone for so much a trying to see why he was so _angry_. That... Bruce understood. He understood it all on a level that he didn't _want_ to. It was, perhaps, the first time he'd realized the depths of his son's own emotional scars.

These days, he had found a common ground with Damian, a way to ease him into a simple dinner, into the exchange of a singular gift between each person in the room without frustration or explosion, and in it he'd found a bit of his own solace. Something about creating an environment that kept _all of his sons_ in a protective little net helped him to breathe better just as much as it did them. It had meant taking a piece of himself, had meant _sacrificing_ some of his own emotions and laying them on the table to do it. It was worth it.

Tonight, instead of the scent of cocoa there was the scent of chai tea, instead of cinnamon there was gingerbread, and instead of a giant gleaming tree there was an artfully arranged pile of packages, courtesy Tim's engineering skills. Dick had strung a single set of lights on a tree outside the window, one strand of gleaming white icicle lights - Bruce's concession to his desire to decorate and spread _joy_. Jason was in the kitchen, helping Alfred, something he'd loved to do as a teen and something Bruce had specifically had Alfred invite him to do. Damian had been allowed to leave on a brief solo patrol for the time being and Bruce planned to turn a blind eye on any excessive use of force for the evening, provided it didn't verge on anything _catastrophic_. The anger, the aggression that would never fade now had an allowable outlet for anyone who dared break the silence of Gotham tonight. He'd been given a time to come back to dinner and Bruce held no doubt in his mind that Damian would arrive, probably just late enough to slip in, hoping to go unnoticed. 

Somewhere in the house, laughter echoed, the sound of Babs and Stephanie, no doubt planning some prank or other for either Dick or Tim. There, he never had to make any concessions, never needed to explain why he didn't want anything elaborate or why certain things were missing from the traditions of the evening. Barbara was smart enough to figure it out and Stephanie was quick enough to take Barbara's lead. 

His final concession had been Cass; allowing her to remain completely away from them for the evening. He knew she was out there somewhere, probably watching after Damian despite the fact that Bruce knew his son could handle himself these days. Her way of dealing with this time of the year was to _help_ in the only way she had ever found to do it when it came to any of them, and Bruce simply allowed to be whatever it was, without comment, without judgment. 

He shifted in front of the window, let his hands move to tuck into his pockets, an action he was too used to denying himself for the lack of range of movement it provided, and he _relaxed_ as best he could. Behind him, the fire crackled and popped, and somewhere in the back of his mind an old memory stirred, tugged at his heart and _threatened_.

Movement came behind him, quicker than most could have picked up on it and with it came a _familiar_ whiff of cologne. It was _expensive_ , a brand he'd specifically picked out for the recipient, perfectly selected for the chemistry of the one in question. The memory that had been hedging in receded and a peculiar sort of _calm_ washed over Bruce just from the proximity of his newly arrived companion. 

He didn't speak, didn't even make any indication that he knew _Clark_ was there, but he knew the slight pickup of his heartbeat wouldn't go unnoticed, knew Clark understood that no matter how quiet he was, Bruce would simply know he was there. 

The barest shift of material behind him and their proximity became something nearly _intimate_ in nature. He heard the slight hitch in Clark's breathing, _understood_ what was going to happen before it ever could. It had been a _long_ time coming; something they'd put off, denied, pushed away time and again. No matter how many years stretched out between them, no matter the range of distance between them or the infrequency of visits, it was something that had _never_ paled. Bruce had understood that this day would eventually come from perhaps their third meeting. He'd seen it in Clark's eyes, had felt it in his own twisting gut, and it had only burned brighter every single time they'd interacted. 

Maybe it was foolish that he still _believed_ in such a thing as love at first sight. Perhaps it was even more so that he _wanted_ it to a degree that occasionally left his hands shaking and his heart hammering out of control the instant Clark was gone.

He _knew_ the actions before he felt them, could sense the way Clark reached for him, the way he was _going_ to wrap his arm around his shoulders, how he was going to try to make this somehow _companionable_ despite how much they both wanted otherwise.

Opening his eyes, Bruce watched Clark's eyes in the reflection as he took the necessary half a step backwards, as he eased himself against Clark's broad chest, as he allowed his heart to hammer out of control the way it always did _after_ Clark was gone. There were only so many concessions a man could make in a single night and _this_ would not be one of them. For once in his life, Bruce _wanted_ to know even a singular moment of happiness and he was going to take it while he could.

Clark's arms wrapped around his waist, cradled Bruce in the warmth of his embrace. Bruce allowed his fingers to come to rest over Clark's clasped hands, allowed his thumb to create the laziest of strokes over his skin. There were a thousand words at the tip of his tongue, a million things he could say and a hundred ways to say them, but none of them felt like they'd measure up to what he needed to say.

Instead of words, Bruce gave Clark the only thing he could. He turned just enough to reach up, to slip one arm around his shoulders and let _his body_ take control. His mind floated adrift in a sea of emotion, in a world that was both tranquil and a raging storm. He felt the shudder he gave and he heard the smallest huff of breath his body freed the instant before they were met with warmth and the lingering hints of peppermint. 

Nothing in the world could have stopped the way he _grasped_ at Clark or the way he barged right on ahead and _stole_ the taste of Earl Grey and peppermint from his mouth with every flick of his tongue. Just as he was certain nothing could have stopped the way Clark _clutched_ at him, the way he backed him up against the cold glass of the window or the way he _pressed_ against him as if he would fall apart should they choose to stop.

Bruce allowed himself to hear the crackle and pop of the fireplace, allowed himself to imagine the hints of cocoa and eggnog on the air, and he allowed himself _happiness_ over those memories while he was _here_ , _safe_ in Clark's embrace. Here, he allowed himself something more precious than any of those memories; he allowed _creation_ of an entirely different set: the essence of chai tea and gingerbread, the scent of Clark's perfectly picked-out cologne mingling with Bruce's own in such a way that it lit a _fire_ inside of him and a warmth that he had lacked for so very _very_ long.

They parted at the lightest of taps on the closed door, the sound of Damian softly inquiring, "Father?" Bruce found himself gazing right into Clark's eyes, _captivated_ in a way he'd never allowed himself to be, and when he felt the smile on his face, he didn't bother trying to stop it as he once might have. Instead, he laced their fingers together, eased them away from the window, and - while words were _unnecessary_ , he felt them appropriate - placed his offer upon the table. "Won't you join me for dinner?"

The light in Clark's eyes was the only answer he'd ever need, though the look of astonishment in his own son's eyes when he opened the door was definitely a plus, and _for once_ , Bruce thought to himself just how lucky he _truly_ was.


End file.
